But you must excuse one thing -- you must excuse my beginning, Mr Hartright, with an expression of
surprise at the interest which you appear to have felt in my late daughter. It is quite unaccountable to
me. If that interest makes you anxious for any particulars of her early life, I must refer you to Mrs Clements,
who knows more of the subject than I do. Pray understand that I do not profess to have been at all
over-fond of my late daughter. She was a worry to me from first to last, with the additional disadvantage
of being always weak in the head. You like candour, and I hope this satisfies you.

There is no need to trouble you with many personal particulars relating to those Past times. It will be
enough to say that I observed the terms of the bargain on my side, and that I enjoyed my comfortable
income in return, paid quarterly.

Now and then I got away and changed the scene for a short time, always asking leave of my lord and
master first, and generally getting it. He was not, as I have already told you, fool enough to drive me
too hard, and he could reasonably rely on my holding my tongue for my own sake, if not for his. One of
my longest trips away from home was the trip I took to Limmeridge to nurse a half-sister there, who was
dying. She was reported to have saved money, and I thought it as well (in case any accident happened
to stop my allowance) to look after my own interests in that direction. As things turned out, however, my
pains were all thrown away, and I got nothing, because nothing was to be had.

I had taken Anne to the north with me, having my whims and fancies, occasionally, about my child, and
getting, at such times, jealous of Mrs Clements' influence over her. I never liked Mrs Clements. She
was a poor, empty-headed, spiritless woman -- what you call a born drudge -- and I was now and then
not averse to plaguing her by taking Anne away. Not knowing what else to do with my girl while I was
nursing in Cumberland, I put her to school at Limmeridge. The lady of the manor, Mrs Fairlie (a remarkably
plain-looking woman, who had entrapped one of the handsomest men in England into marrying her),
amused me wonderfully by taking a violent fancy to my girl. The consequence was, she learnt nothing
at school, and was petted and spoilt at Limmeridge House. Among other whims and fancies which they
taught her there, they put some nonsense into her head about always wearing white. Hating white and
liking colours myself, I determined to take the nonsense out of her head as soon as we got home again.

Strange to say, my daughter resolutely resisted me. When she had got a notion once fixed in her mind
she was, like other halfwitted people, as obstinate as a mule in keeping it. We quarrelled finely, and Mrs
Clements, not liking to see it, I suppose, offered to take Anne away to live in London with her. I should
have said Yes, if Mrs Clements had not sided with my daughter about her dressing herself in white. But
being determined she should not dress herself in white, and disliking Mrs Clements more than ever for
taking part against me, I said No, and meant No, and stuck to No. The consequence was, my daughter
remained with me, and the consequence of that, in its turn, was the first serious quarrel that happened
about the Secret.

The circumstance took place long after the time I have just been writing of. I had been settled for years
in the new town, and was steadily living down my bad character and slowly gaining ground among the
respectable inhabitants. It helped me forward greatly towards this object to have my daughter with me.
Her harmlessness and her fancy for dressing in white excited a certain amount of sympathy. I left off
opposing her favourite whim on that account, because some of the sympathy was sure, in course of
time, to fall to my share. Some of it did fall. I date my getting a choice of the two best sittings to let in
the church from that time, and I date the clergyman's first bow from my getting the sittings.

Well, being settled in this way, I received a letter one morning from that highly born gentleman (now
deceased) in answer to one of mine, warning him, according to agreement, of my wishing to leave the
town for a little change of air and scene.

The ruffianly side of him must have been uppermost, I suppose, when he got my letter, for he wrote
back, refusing me in such abominably insolent language, that I lost all command over myself, and abused
him, in my daughter's presence, as `a low imposter whom I could ruin for life if I chose to open my lips